


A Savage Self-Frustration

by apoptoses



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hallucinations, M/M, emotionally constipated murder husbands, transatlantic sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:38:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8170234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apoptoses/pseuds/apoptoses
Summary: Will had imagined their trip back across the Atlantic as a bright new beginning. Instead the boat has become his prison, and he's locked in with a reticent Hannibal and the ghosts of his past.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt I received ages ago on tumblr. This fic probably went through about twelve iterations (and could probably go through twelve more if I continued editing) before I finally settled on this.

"This savage self-frustration is the end of that which had its tender and romantic beginnings in the dalliance of indulged passion"

-Dante, _Inferno,_ Canto VII

* * *

 

The sky is an oppressive slate grey. It blends with the choppy Atlantic waters, turning the horizon into a vast, bleak canvas that stretches on as far as Will's eye can see. Somewhere out there in the distance is the European coast, but it'll be at least another two weeks before they see it.

It's been thirteen days since they killed Dolarhyde, and nine of that has been spent on the boat. They haven't seen a hint of sunshine since Will had broken Hannibal out of the van.

 "If that's not some kind of omen I don't know what is," Will mutters.

He sets the navigation system and makes his way to the bedroom.

Hannibal had guided Will in picking the bullet out of his gut and then proceeded to sleep most of the first week. Will had done his best to keep him resting, but by their fifth day on the boat he'd insisted on taking a short watch here and there. Exhausted, Will had obliged.

It's strange to have the world whittled down to just the two of them. One day blends into the next, and Hannibal is there in all of them; brushing past Will to make a cup of coffee, sketching on the desk with a notepad and pencil, lying in the bed in the cabin. He stares incessantly. He hardly speaks unless spoken to. 

Will doesn't know what to do with him. Every neuron in his brain tells him to take him into his arms like he had on the edge of the cliff, but Hannibal never gives him an opening to do so. He never does much of anything; face unfalteringly neutral whenever Will touches him. 

He chalks it up to the pain of their slow healing wounds; Hannibal with his side, Will with his shoulder. Will grabs the bottle of aspirin and opens the bedroom door. 

His sleep-deprived brain expects to see Molly lying there with one of the dogs. Instead there's Hannibal with his silver-streaked hair and wind-burned cheeks. Without his perpetual neutral expression he looks peaceful, even boyish, Will thinks. 

Hannibal's fringe is starting to grow in. Will wonders if he can convince him to grow it long enough to pull back. He brushes it away from Hannibal's face, fingertips skimming over his forehead. Hannibal stirs beneath him but doesn't wake. 

When he'd been with Molly, he'd always brushed the hair out of her sleeping face. In the dark recess of his mind, Will can see her standing there just behind Hannibal's head. She looks at Will's hand, buried in Hannibal's hair, then at Will's face, and recoils. 

She opens her mouth to speak, but Hannibal's voice comes out.

 "Will?" 

Will looks down into Hannibal's eyes. He jerks his hand away and turns on his heel before he can see the frown pass over Hannibal's face. 

"It's your watch," Will mutters and leaves the room.

 He sleeps on the sofa, ghosts of his past lingering at the edges of his dreams.

 --- 

Will's never been good at relationships. Starting one, ending one. It reminds him of driving his father's manual for the first time, missing the clutch and stalling out so many times he'd slammed the door of the car and walked the five miles home. The memory of it antagonizes him, even twenty-odd years later. He never quite got the timing right and he's gone for automatics ever since. 

Hannibal peers at him owlishly over dinner. Tonight he has prepared _poisson en papillote_. The fish steams in its little parchment paper container, surrounded by tomatoes and olives. If they hadn’t been at sea, Will never would have guessed the tomatoes were canned. 

"You appear deep in thought," Hannibal remarks. "What's on your mind?" 

There had been a day that had permanently altered Will’s mental landscape. He remembers it perfectly; right down to the way the afternoon sunlight had filtered in through the windows and made the hardwood floors appear to be made of spun gold.

 Will had come in from running the dogs and been hit full on with the scent of simmering vegetables, and as he’d rounded the corner he hadn’t seen his perfect wife and his perfect kitchen. He’d seen Hannibal, sleeves rolled up and knife in his hand as if it were an extension of his actual hand. Will had ached for him then, just as Bedelia had said. 

The memory filters through his mind. His stomach turns. 

The ghostly image of Molly he can see at Hannibal's side cocks her head. "Yeah, Will. What's up?" she asks. 

Will grimaces. "Nothing," he lies. "Thinking about catching a fish for you to cook tomorrow." 

Will gets up to clear their plates after dinner. The dishes are stacked high in his left hand, and as he moves toward the sink he runs his free hand over Hannibal's shoulder; giving it an absent minded squeeze as he moves past.

 Hannibal doesn't react. Molly does, though, shooting Will a tight lipped frown. 

Will washes the dishes. None of them say a word. 

\--- 

"Do you ever see people from your past?" Will asks. He's sat with his fishing rod while Hannibal toys with a length of rope. 

Hannibal has taken to practicing sailing knots. He’s a quick learner, fingers deftly manipulating the rope to match the illustrations in the book Will had given him. Will watches his long, slender fingers pull the rope into a sheet bend and then begin to unpick the knot and start over.

 "Do you mean in my memory palace, or like you once saw Garrett Jacob Hobbs?" Hannibal asks. 

"Like the...last thing," Will says, tripping over his words in attempt to avoid saying Hobbs' name. 

Hannibal purses his lips as he considers the question. "Though I have sometimes ruminated on people I once knew, I’m afraid I’ve never seen anyone as a projection in the way you do.” 

“Too many neat little barricades in your mind for that.” 

“Perhaps.” Hannibal turns the page of his book and chooses another knot to work from. "Is there someone you're seeing?" 

"I..." Will finds his mouth dry, unable to form the words. 

There’s no reason to be afraid of telling the truth. They’ll never see Molly or Walter or anyone from New England again, if their plan for when they hit Europe works out. The thought makes him feel adrift. Utterly alone. 

"There's a lot of people we won't see again," Will finally settles on saying. 

"Yes, there is.” 

He reaches out, grasping for- he’s not sure what, entirely. Hannibal’s hand. An anchor to keep him in the present. Will gets so far as to let his fingertips brush over Hannibal’s knuckles and stops, unsure of how to complete what he’s started. 

Hannibal goes still.

 “I believe something's tugging at your line," Hannibal says with a nod toward the trembling pole. 

Will pulls his hand away, grits his teeth, and begins to reel the fish in. 

\--- 

It happens again and again and again. Will touches, Molly watches, and Hannibal remains as neutral and numb as he’d been the first day Will had sat down in his office. 

When they sit, crowded together on the sofa, Hannibal puts his back to the wall and tucks his feet up on the cushion next to Will's thigh. Will catches himself with a book in one hand and the other hand wrapped around a delicate ankle, massaging at the tendons there. Hannibal is frozen, like a deer in the headlights, and when Will jerks his hand away he gets up and retreats to the bedroom. 

Molly perches on the edge of the dinner table, just as she had at home. “Is this really what you tore apart your whole life for? I always figured he’d be frigid, you know.” 

Will tries to ignore her and go back to his book, but the question is burned into his mind. 

\--- 

Will runs his hand over the small of Hannibal's back when they pass in the narrow galley. He gives him a hand to help him up when he finds Hannibal sitting on the deck. He plucks a stray thread from the back pocket of the jeans Hannibal had picked up before they escaped to the sea. 

He nearly leans in for a goodnight kiss one night when they're changing watch shifts. Will catches himself with his lips parted, head angled in, and fumbles to make it come off as if he's double checking the control panel. It doesn't work well. He's left with Hannibal and Molly both blinking at him as he retreats into the cabin. 

Will wants to take Hannibal by the shoulders, shake him, and scream. They've made a path of blood to get here, and all Will has to show for it is a reticent a reticent cannibal and the imaginary relics of an ex-wife picking at his insecurities.

 Late one night after Hannibal ignores the brush of Will's hand against his forearm on his way to bed, Will picks up a glass and shatters it against a wall. 

Hannibal doesn't come back out of the bedroom to check on the noise. Molly rolls her eyes. 

"Look at what you've gotten yourself into now," she says.

 Will storms out onto the deck. 

\--- 

"Are you angry?" Hannibal asks. 

Will picks up the last of the shards of glass and carefully disposes of them before turning to the coffee mugs on the counter. "Why?" 

"You've been distant. You broke a glass last night," Hannibal lists off. "And you've been staring at the knife collection. Frankly, its's getting disconcerting." 

Will snorts. "I'm not going to stab you, Hannibal." 

"Is there something you'd like to talk about?" Hannibal asks. 

He's maddeningly calm. It's the same tone of voice Will remembers him using in his therapy sessions.  Some therapy that was. 

Will throws the spoon into the sink with more force than necessary. 

"It depends." Will says. "Are you asking because you want to psychoanalyze me? Or are you actually noticing what’s not going on between us?" 

"I'm offering out of concern for your well-being." 

Will sips at his coffee, brows furrowed as he stares at Hannibal. 

"Fine. Come up on deck." 

\--- 

Will huddles back into the hood of his jacket, knees pulled up to his chest as he sits on the cold deck. The sun has just begun to creep over the horizon, turning the sky a dusky orange. 

"Perhaps we’ll see a hint of sun today," Hannibal says as he sits down beside him. Their shoulders nearly touch. Every cell in Will's body screams out for him to lean into the warmth, but he edges away instead. If he leans in now Hannibal will just go still and the precipice they’re hanging on will crumble. 

"It has to do with Molly, just so you know." 

He can see Hannibal go tense and tight-lipped. He's never liked hearing about her before. Hell, he sent Dolarhyde after just hearing one mention of her existence. Will expects he doesn't much like the reminder now. 

"I see. She's the loved one you mentioned seeing, then," Hannibal says after a long pause. 

"Look, don't get pissy about it, okay? I had to watch you and Alana for weeks, so you can listen to this for ten minutes," Will snaps. 

Hannibal arches a barely-there brow and sips at his cup. "Do you believe I began a relationship with Alana in order to antagonize you?" 

_Yes_ , Will's brain supplies but he pushes down the thought. “Don’t change the subject.” 

Hannibal doesn't respond. Will doesn't know if it's to try to pressure him into bringing up the problem himself or because for once he genuinely has nothing to say. Maybe Will should go inside. Maybe he should turn the boat around. Maybe this whole thing is a bad idea. 

“How do you feel, Will?” Hannibal asks. 

Will goes for the barb he knows will strike the hardest. “Well, for one I’m starting to feel like this whole trip is a mistake. You told me on that cliff that this was all you ever wanted for us. What is it that you wanted then? To trap me on a boat and ignore me to the point I start imagining my ex-wife?”

Hannibal sits there, uncharacteristically quiet. 

“What, no metaphors for this?” Will asks, though he doesn’t give Hannibal a chance to respond. The dam is open and there’s no stopping it. "You know, every time I'm near you I feel like Molly is there, watching me over your shoulder. Judging. You ignore me when I touch you and that makes me question why I do it at all." 

The words spill out, one after another, and before Will knows it tears of frustration are threatening to spill over with them. He forces himself to look up and let the wind blow them dry.  

He glances over at Hannibal. He’s got that wrinkled nose look about him, the one he gets when he’s angry and struggling to keep his face calm. It’s the most reaction Will’s gotten out of him in weeks. 

"You'll have to forgive me if I'm reluctant to respond to your attention. Past experience has shown me that your use of affection can be dangerous," Hannibal snips.                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

 "Christ. You know that- it’s different this time and you have to-" Will stammers out. 

“No, Will, I don’t. I am not a mind reader, despite all of my expertise in- what do you prefer to refer to it as? Manipulation?” Hannibal asks. “Nor am I an unfeeling monolith.” 

“Yeah? Well you sure act like one.” 

Will makes to stand and go back into the cabin but Hannibal stays him with a hand on his knee. 

“We must discuss this if we are to survive this journey. Sit.” 

As if compelled to obey, Will returns to his seat, though this time leaving a good foot of space between them. Hannibal sips at his coffee until some of the tension between them ebbs. 

"Do you know of the imago, Will?" Hannibal asks. 

"We talked about it once. It's the unconscious image of a loved one." 

"Yes. Some therapists take it a step further, saying it's born out of emotional wounds. A past loved one created these wounds. We choose a partner who has traits similar to that loved one, but we expect our present partners to heal those wounds for us," Hannibal says. "Molly was unable to heal your wounds. She couldn't force you into being the person you thought you ought to be."

 Will shakes his head. "No. Not even close." 

“If we are to continue the metaphor, then we must assume that I have taken the role of your current partner. Would you agree with that?” 

Will can’t find it in him to speak. He nods. 

"Then tell me, Will. What wounds do you expect me to heal?" Hannibal asks, and then adds softly, "or do you expect me to open more?" 

Will swallows hard as he mulls over his answer. "I don't know," he admits, mumbling the words into his coffee. "I guess I expected you to make that choice. I thought we’d come out here and you’d take the reins like you always do, and everything would just…fall into place." 

“We often expect things to fall into line naturally, but they so rarely do. And so we’re left with half-hearted attempts to bridge the gap between us.” 

“They’re not half-hearted, they’re…” 

Hannibal gives him a pointed look. Will bristles. 

“What does this have to do with anything?” he asks. 

“We have a difficult history together,” Hannibal says carefully. “Would it shock you to know that my greatest fear is that should I take the role of aggressor, one day you might claim that I manipulated you into a romantic relationship?” 

“I don’t-“ 

Hannibal ignores him. “Too often you allow your hand to be forced by circumstance so that you can escape responsibility when things do not turn out to your liking. I cannot run the risk of that form of betrayal again. I will not.” 

Before Will can defend himself Hannibal stands, joints popping in the cold. His knees crack as he stretches. "Now, I believe I'll go start breakfast. Do you have any opinion on what we eat today?" 

Will shakes his head. "No." 

He hears the door to the cabin shut and he's suddenly, achingly, alone. 

\--- 

Hannibal brings breakfast up on deck. Will eats his scrambled eggs alone, in silence, and attempts to will away the imaginary projection of Molly he can see at the controls beside him.

 “He’s quite sensitive for a cannibal serial killer,” she teases. 

"You're not real," he mumbles around his food. "You're even less real than Garrett Jacob Hobbs. At least he was the product of a fever dream. You're just the product of-" 

"Regret?" she supplies. 

"No." Out of all the choices he's made, leaving with Hannibal isn't one he regrets. "If anything I regret not leaving with him sooner. Then maybe all of these messes we made could have been avoided." 

Will sets his empty plate on his lap. "You're the product of my subconscious wrestling with itself. Of indecision." 

“And according to him, this whole situation is the product of continuing indecision.” Molly props her chin up on her hand. “This whole trip is like National Lampoon’s family vacation, huh.” 

“Yeah, minus the humor.” 

“So what’s the deal? Because it’s pretty clear he’s scared. Are you scared?” 

“No.” The answer comes so quickly and easily Will surprises himself. “But I feel guilty for how I’ve discarded you.” 

“Well, you have to admit to yourself that you always knew I was just a stop-gap,” Molly says. “We fell into each other. You fell away. It was inevitable in some way. You do need to work on the whole agency and responsibility thing, though. He’s right about that.” 

“I guess so.” 

“Because you can’t come back to me. So you might as well start moving forward. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?” 

Will snorts. “He could kill me and eat me?” 

“You really think he’s gonna do that if you lay one on him? He’ll probably cry.” 

Will looks over at her, brow arched. “You’ve got remarkably good humor about all of this.” 

Molly laughs. “Well, you’re pretty much talking to yourself here, remember?” 

He can't believe he's taking suggestions from a hallucination. Subconscious projection. Imago. Whatever. 

Will feels her fade away into the mists of the Atlantic as he takes his plate inside.

 --- 

"I'm sorry. For doing things by halves," Will blurts out over dinner. "And for trying to put you into a position to make choices for me." 

Hannibal pauses with his fork midway to his lips. Will had caught a fish and Hannibal had managed to whip it into a dish whose name Will can't remember, much less pronounce. 

"I see. I accept your apology," he says and continues eating. 

"But you can't give me nothing to work off. You can’t just take one hundred percent all the time. That's not fair either." 

Hannibal studies his face carefully, as if to divine from it exactly what kind of response Will is seeking. Will stares back. 

Finally, Hannibal pushes his plate to the side and folds his hands on the table. "Then I believe we must do something incredibly trite." 

"Oh?"

 "We must endeavor to improve our communication skills," Hannibal says. 

“How very psychiatrist-like of you.” Will snorts. "No more stabbing our way out of things?" 

"No more stabbing each other, at least." 

"Okay. Truce." Will stands and gathers up the plates and utensils. It's as if the walls in the boat have expanded now that the tension is gone. He doesn't feel as caged, as pressed in as he had before. "Did you make dessert?" 

Hannibal sits back. For the time being he seems content to let Will do all of the work of serving the meal. "There's a pair of tarts in the refrigerator.” 

Will gives the plates a perfunctory rinse before retrieving the tarts. They're made from canned fruits but from their delicate arrangement one would never know it. Will sets them on the table and, in a fit of impulse, takes Hannibal's face in his hands and kisses him.

 There's an awkward beat in which Will's stomach drops, fearing he's made the wrong choice and jumped too far too fast, before Hannibal drops his fork and surges up to meet him. Their noses bump at first, but then they find the right angle and everything slots together perfectly; lips sliding together as Hannibal licks into his mouth. Will shivers and curls his fingers into the short hair at the back of Hannibal’s neck. 

They're both panting when Hannibal pulls away. He doesn't go far, just enough that he can look up into Will's eyes. 

Will leans in, forehead brushing against Hannibal's. "Is this enough for you? Or is it still half-hearted?”

 Hannibal shakes his head. 

“It’s more than enough. It’s more than I ever imagined possible,” he says. 

“More than you imagined already?” Will grins. “We haven’t even gotten started.” 

Hannibal drags him down into his lap. One of the tarts ends up on the floor. 

\---

 The tiny bedroom is flooded with light the next morning, dawn burning its way into the starboard porthole so scorchingly bright that Will presses his face into Hannibal's neck in order to shield his eyes. Blindly, he fumbles for the string to pull the shade down with. He ends up smacking Hannibal in the jaw on the way. 

"I know that we only spoke about stabbing, but I had assumed we'd also ruled out other types of physical harm yesterday," Hannibal mumbles, half asleep. 

"Sorry. I can't find the thing to pull the fucking shade down with." 

"Perhaps if you opened your eyes?" 

When Will continues to feel around without responding, Hannibal sighs and takes him by the hip. He rolls Will onto his side so that he's facing the opposite wall, and spoons up into the curve of his body. 

Will has to get up sometime. Through this window he can see the faint black smear of the coastline out ahead. He'll have to guide the boat into a harbor so they can stretch their legs and resupply before continuing on across the Mediterranean. 

He doesn’t move. Hannibal's chest is warm against his back and he can feel his heart beating somewhere below his shoulder blade. Will can't remember the last time he let someone hold him like this; if he's ever let someone hold him properly. 

He lets the sunshine soak into his skin. The harbor can wait. 


End file.
